


A second time around

by bongbingbong



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, The Virginian | The Men From Shiloh (TV)
Genre: AU where Bones was his character from The Virginian in a past life, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Minor character death (Spock in a past life), Minor depictions of Old West doctoring, Panic Attacks, Past life, you don't have to have seen that to read this though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: Bones meets Spock, and tries to untangle why he seems so familiar... and why the emotion attached to their interactions always feels like some variation on guiltA reincarnation AU where Bones was an Old West doctor in a past life, and Spock was his patient. Based off their characters in The Virginian, but you don't have to have seen that to read this.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Bones McCoy H/C





	A second time around

When Bones meets Spock, he dislikes him immediately. The man makes something inside him feel deeply uncomfortable, and he pushes the feeling aside as normal. Vulcans have always given him a weird feeling; he has enough trouble trying to decipher human social cues, so the signals from a race who actively try to make that more difficult are a challenge he doesn’t need right now. 

The feeling only intensifies the first time he gives Spock a physical. This time it’s not just discomfort, something deep inside him  _ hurts _ and he can’t quite put his finger on why. He ruminates on the feeling long after his shift is over and he remains in sickbay, idly scrolling through reports that he should probably be paying more attention to. This is when it hits him. The feeling is guilt, and it irritates the hell out of him because those damned Vulcans and their damned secretive business are the real reason he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with Spock.

At first he lashes out, blames Spock for the shortcomings of his bizarre physical features. If anything, this makes things worse, and he can’t stop the sick feeling that builds and builds every time Spock ends up in his sickbay. 

He reads. The minutiae of every medical study involving a Vulcan he can get his hands on, he devours, hoping an increase in his knowledge, in his care, will mean a decrease in those horrible claws that embed themselves in his chest every time he looks at Spock on a biobed. Early one morning, Chapel finds him asleep at his desk, exhaustion having claimed him after countless weary hours at his research. She puts a blanket around his shoulders and remarks that he’s too caring for his own good. Bones doesn’t reply, because he knows the truth - he isn’t doing this for Spock’s sake. He is selfish.

*

His tests confirm the cordrazine is out of his system. He tests himself again. Negative. He’s clear of it. And yet - surely there must be some trace left behind, because he can’t shake these awful dreams that plague him night after night. In his dreams, he is in a filthy wooden hall, a sort of makeshift infirmary. The beds are packed too close together. The room has little ventilation, and in the dream his hair is damp with sweat, his mouth sour with the taste of bad alcohol. 

The sheets are threadbare and permanently stained. He has a kit full of knives and hammers and saws, and in his dreams he slices into people, live people, people who are awake and cry out in pain but remain still - for him. Because they trust him. He is a doctor. He cuts people open and sews them back together and awakens terrified and confused. For a split second he panics, wondering how he will make his way home from the middle of the desert.Then he realises he is in his quarters. He is Doctor McCoy. With the realisation comes another one - he is exhausted, and the taste of cheap whiskey lingers on his tongue. He doesn’t know what to do with this information, but it frightens the hell out of him. One more test, perhaps. Surely the cordrazine-

*

The night he has Sarek, Spock, and Jim in his infirmary, he stays up all night to watch over them. It is illogical, as Sarek and Spock both have no problem informing him. There are monitors to keep them under watch, and he will be informed by them and the night staff if his presence is required. But something deep, deep down in his gut tells him that he cannot fall asleep. That if he falls asleep, something terrible will happen. He cannot quite say why, or what, but the feeling is unshakeable, like a fact that the universe has already confirmed. The next morning, intensely weary, Bones commences his shift. Spock asks him how he feels - half sarcasm, half worry that his current weakened state betrays more openly than usual. Bones does not have a reply for him - he is too worn out. That, and part of him recognises the feeling for what it is - the same strange, specific guilt that accosted him that first day he met Spock.

*

_ You’re a nice guy, Doc. Who’d you ever hate? _

_ Myself. _

*

He feels it, in a flash. He has a sword and a shield in his hand and he’s running from the maniac who’s chasing him down, heart hammering in terror, fighting not to close his eyes every time he barely manages to block his opponent’s blows. He’s forced onto his knees and every time the sword crashes onto his shield it sends a bolt of pain down his arm. Somewhere, elsewhere in the room, Spock asks him if he “requires assistance.” That ignites an emotion inside him that he can’t quite place, but like all feelings that render him vulnerable, it emerges as anger. He shouts at Spock until he is flung onto his back, and suddenly Spock is all action, making short work of his own gladiator and running to his side. Spock tosses the second man aside like he weighs nothing. He would not have to have rescued Jim like this. It’s not a thought that’s crossed his mind before, but right now, lying on the floor of the studio, trembling and helpless and gasping for air, Bones realises that the feeling that burns through him is shame.

*

McCoy doesn’t believe in past lives. Rather, the enormity of the implication that there’s some part of him that endures beyond a lifetime is too much for him to comprehend. So he rejects it as more voodoo nonsense. 

_ Mister Spock, this seems like it’s right up your alley, isn’t it? _

So when the Oracle of Trosalea demands that they look into their past lives, he can’t bring himself to take it seriously. Sure, whatever images get broadcast in the mirror-smooth surface of the seeing-well might be a little humiliating, but there’s no way they can be real. 

That’s not what makes him volunteer to go first, though. He just wants it over with, a little pinprick of pain and then it’s all over and Jim can go through with whatever first contact nonsense he’s here for.

They gather around the well, and the Oracle guides his hands to rest on two intricate metal filigree pieces, in the shape of two six-fingered hands, sculpted with their palms facing upwards. They rest on two long rods that protrude from somewhere beneath the water. She reassures him that the lack of an extra finger will not hinder his progress. 

He holds the metal hands, lacing his fingers through them in a gesture that feels too intimate. The strange, greenish metal feels warm, feels like it’s moving under him, a slow expansion and contraction imperceptible to the eye.

All of a sudden, the hands pull him down and he is floating in inky water, panicking. The water is hot, boiling, and it threatens to suffocate him - he struggles, bubbles tickling along his face as the last of the precious air in his chest escapes. The heat burns all around him, the pressure of the water pressing down on him as he struggles for air and finally sucks in a great lungful that scorches his lungs-

\- with hot, desert air. He sits up, sucking in great gulps of air, and realises that he’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s dry, and he’s in the middle of the desert, apparently playing cowboy. There’s something important he needs to be doing. Perhaps it has something to do with the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

A man rides up and shouts at him. He finds himself shouting back. He feels the words coming out of his mouth, but he does not understand them. Then, he is crying. Guilt overwhelms him, and the only thought that crosses his mind is to take a shaky drink from the bottle-

\- that he keeps in the cabinet by his desk. Someone’s telling him off for it.

_ You have a patient, don’t ya know? _

He does know. He is a doctor. He will attend to his patient, he will-

\- stay up all night, if he has to. He calls out for a coffee. Spock might not survive the night.

Spock.

Spock?

The man in the bed is not Spock. The man on the bed is injured, weak, dying. His ears are rounded, and that detail more than anything throws him for a loop.

_ I have met you before. _

_ In twelve hours time, I will let you die. _

_ Who is Spock? _

He grinds his hands so hard into his eyes he sees stars-

\- in the night sky. People are shouting. A gun is placed into his hands, and for shame he cannot shoot it, cannot defend himself, cannot bring himself to take a life. He’s a doctor, for chrissakes, even if he’s a failed one, he won’t let himself do it again, he won’t let himself kill for the sake of-

\- Killing their attackers brings on a fresh bout of tears, and he doesn’t know why he’s crying now, whether it’s from the taking of a life, or from the pressure of remaining alive, or from the relief of the knowledge that it hadn’t been negligence that had killed his patient (not Spock, someone else, somebody-), it had been  _ murder _ -

Bones pulls back with a gasp, and falls backwards from the well. Spock and Jim are holding him up, which is good because his legs are so weak he can barely stand. His throat hurts.

“Bones.”

Jim is holding his face, and Bones forces himself to meet his Captain’s eyes. The younger man is frantic as they gently lower him onto the ground.

“Bones, are you back with us?”

“M’alright, Jim.”

His voice is hoarse. His throat feels like it’s been shredded. Now that he’s had some time to take stock of his surroundings, he realises there’s sweat running into his eyes, and he’s panting like he’s just run a mile. 

“Don’t try that with me,” says Jim, “you were screaming.”

He obeys. He lets his two friends guide him away, and the Trosaleans let them. Later, much later, Bones discovers that they are negotiating adjustments to their welcoming protocols. 

*

He avoids Spock. He avoids him, because in a past life, he killed him. Not with his own hands, but he had fallen asleep. As if to punish him for the fact, his body now refuses to allow him any rest at all. He lies awake at night, because every time he begins to drift off, he is sucked back down into that inky water, where guilt and fear and shame fill his lungs and threaten to suffocate him with their intensity.

An exhausted CMO is an ineffective one, however, and Spock tells him as much after several days of this. By this time, Bones is stumbling and the words feel like they’re being spoken underwater. Spock takes him by the arms, and Bones falls forwards into his shoulder, burying his face there. Tentatively, two hands circle his waist and come to rest on the small of his back. He knows he doesn’t deserve this, but right now he’s too tired to punish himself over it.

“We all observed your experiences in your past life,” says Spock.

“Don’t,” replies McCoy, his voice muffled by the fabric of Spock’s shirt.

He feels Spock’s chest expand and contract with a sigh.

“Allow me to escort you to your quarters.”

Spock is solid. He is here. He is real. Bones nods his assent, and allows himself to be walked back to his room.

He is gently lowered to the bed. Spock kneels and removes his boots while he tries to blink the confusion from his eyes. A glass of water is pressed into his hands, and he drinks obediently, faintly aware of the growing headache behind his eyes.

“Doctor,” says Spock, “do you wish to sleep?”

“More ‘n anything,”

Bones hates the way his voice slurs, but he can’t do anything about it.

“I have a proposal for you. I wish for you to listen to it in its entirety before you make a decision on whether or not to acquiesce.”

“Meanin’ I prob’ly won’t like it, hm?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Bones shrugs one shoulder, then nods.

“Can I lie down while I listen?”

“Of course-”

He doesn’t wait for Spock’s reply; he has already flopped backwards by the time the words are out.

“I wish to mind meld with you doctor - I ask that you remember your promise.”

Bones closes his mouth.

“I will not take any of your thoughts. I will give you only mine.”

“How do I know that’s true?”

Silence from Spock. McCoy sits up on his elbows to look at him. His face is inscrutable.

“Do you trust me, Doctor?”

McCoy lies back down with a shaky exhale.

“With my life, Spock.”

He considers the idea for a moment. He doesn’t like it at all, not when rifling around in his brain was what got him here in the first place. But on the other hand… he is so  _ tired _ .

“Alright,” he says, “do it.”

*

Spock’s hands are cool on his skin. Soothing. He focuses on the sensation as Spock initiates the meld.

_ My mind to your mind _

_ My thoughts to your thoughts _

He is floating, but this time he feels light and full of air. He is entirely incorporeal, and he flits through the walls and corridors of memories as easily as turning the pages of a book. He sees himself and Spock arguing in sickbay. Spock is in bed. He turns and reaches for a hypospray. Spock flinches. Bones grumbles about how he’s had to change all the damned settings around for his stupid green Vulcan blood, loud enough for him to hear. Spock relaxes.

A sudden feeling of vertigo as they flit into another memory. Spock lies in bed after his transfusion. He is weak. Sleepy. Bones feels the sensations, strangely aware that they don’t belong to him. Then suddenly, a surge of affection mingled with worry, as Bones settles into a chair for the night, flicking through something on his PADD. Spock falls asleep, and the feeling as he drifts off is calm. Safe.

They are being attacked. One fight blurs into many, but all coloured with a surge of protectiveness that again, doesn’t belong to him. Spock barrels his way through the shifting faces of countless alien species to get to him. Spock lingers on this feeling longest of all, the one he cannot express save in moments where he can ensure Bones’ safety. The feeling is intense, and Spock holds him in it, this knowledge that he is cared for with a ferocity that shocks him, so at odds is it with Spock’s usual facade. This, at least, Bones understands. 

_ Need any help, Doctor? _

_ (I’m coming) _

_ Whatever gave you that idea? _

_ (Please) _

Spock disentangles their minds with practiced ease, and then continues to hold him, this time in his arms. The lightness remains - Bones feels like he’s been poured out and emptied. The sticky sludge of emotion that had been festering in his chest has been cleaned, for the time being, and he is tired. As Bones begins to drift, the thought crosses his mind that this doesn’t truly fix anything - nothing will, except perhaps time and patience, but his guilt has been recategorised, made smaller. The memories of him, the other him, have faded back into the same space his dreams inhabit. They are small enough for him to allow himself to reach for Spock again, and pull him closer as he begins to fall asleep. 


End file.
